look here, Jim,” Pete Morrison remarked calmly. “I’ll allow that this ain’t none of my affairs. I interfere only as far as this. While my pard’s away, no one don’t enter his shanty, nor meddle with his property—not if I’m around, anyway. If this ‘ere boy belongs to you, come and fetch him while Bryan’s here. That’s all. Now I reckon you’d better quit. You seem to have scared the life out of the young ‘un.”
Mr. Hamilton was white with rage. He walked sullenly to the door and then turned round.
“Very well, Pete. Your turn now, mine next. I’m off to the creek. What was it Dan Cooper proposed, and Pete Robinson seconded, eh?” he sneered. “No women in this ‘ere camp. And you and your d—d partner thought you’d make fools of us all by calling that a boy, eh? Ha! ha! ha! We’ll see. Mark my words, Pete, my fine chap. Before to-morrow’s sun goes down, you’ll be advertising for a partner. Ha! ha!”
He turned away. Suddenly a faint voice recalled him. He looked round. Myra was standing in the doorway, pale and trembling. She laid her hand on Pete Morrison’s coat-sleeve.
“Is that true?” she whispered hoarsely. “Tell me quick.”
“Reckon so,” Pete answered gruffly.
He had done his duty to his partner, but he had no friendly feelings towards this stranger. She turned towards Mr. Hamilton, who was watching her with an evil smile.
“Will you wait a little time before you go down and tell them in the camp?” she said, in a dull, lifeless tone.
“Four-and-twenty hours,” he answered briefly. “If you are with me to-morrow morning before the sun touches yonder ridge, I am silent. If not—you know.”
He sprang down the gorge side and disappeared. Pete Morrison had also gone back to his shanty without another word to the stranger whose presence he found so unwelcome. Myra was alone.
She sat down upon the little bench and looked out with blind, unseeing eyes on the sun-smitten woods and the valley still overhung with faint wreaths of fairy-like mist. Alas, all their sweetness was gone for her. A great black shadow lay across it all. Shuddering, she dared for a moment to glance back at those awful days which for years she had been striving to forget; days of horror, and degradation, and sin, days almost of madness. She had climbed a little way out of hell, only to be thrust back again by the same hand that had ‘dragged her down. She knew no God. She had no friend. There was no way for her to turn, nothing but death. She stretched out her hand, and thrust the small revolver which she had brought with her from San Francisco into the bosom of her gown. She had been very near it twice before: once when her first trust had been betrayed, and again in the desert when gaunt famine had stared her in the face. This time it seemed to her that death would be an easier thing. The man who had shown her the blackest and most hideous depths of human depravity was breathing the same air. Better death by the slowest and most awful tortures than that his hand and hers should ever meet again upon this earth. Better a hell of everlasting torture than such a hell as this. She stretched out her hand with a convulsive, dramatic gesture towards the little brown shanty on the other side of the gorge, and her lips moved in an unspoken oath. The sweet, sharp air into which she looked was rent by the single word which burst from her tightly-compressed lips: “Never!”
VI. THE DESIRE OF THE WORLD
Soon after eight o’clock, the Englishman, with his spade over his shoulder, and the perspiration streaming from his face, came toiling up the gorge, all unconscious of the fact that he was being watched by three people. Mr. Hamilton, duly prepared for any little unpleasantness that might take place, was skulking in the dark interior of his shanty, with a long knife in his belt, and his revolver on the table before him. He had no intention of going down to work until he saw what was to be the result of his morning’s expedition. In public he felt that any contest between the Englishman and himself would have to be conducted according to the camp’s notions of fair play. Here, on the contrary, he would have full advantage of certain methods known only to himself and in which by frequent practice he had attained a singular proficiency. So he sat smoking his pipe, and watching the tall, stalwart figure climbing up the valley, with a grim smile on his dark face.
There were two others who watched his progress. Pete Morrison, who stood at the door of his cabin, equipped for the day’s toil, and ready to start off and take his place; and Myra, who was of the three certainly the most anxious. Directly she saw Pete Morrison step out as though to intercept his partner, she hurried forward to the edge of the gorge, and waved both her hands to hasten him on. If she had felt sure of her footing, she would have scrambled down to meet him Anything to have reached him first—anything to prevent the knowledge of the morning’s adventure reaching him from any one else save herself.
She took one step down the gorge, steadying herself with a low-hanging alder bough. The Englishman saw her, and waved her back.
“Hold on!” he cried, in surprise. “I’m coming!”
“Hurry, then!” she called back. “Breakfast is just spoilt!”
Pete, too, had taken his pipe from his mouth, and seemed about to address his partner, now immediately below him. At the sound of the girl’s voice, however, he paused and glanced up to the broad green platform on which she was standing, her hair waving in the breeze, and her slim figure clearly outlined against the blue sky. He was too far away to read her expression, but something in her voice and her quick, anxious glance in his direction struck him curiously. He checked his forward movement, and contented himself with a gruff good-morning, as the Englishman passed on below, and commenced to scramble up the gorge.
“Going down, Pete?” he called out.
“Right away!” was the brief reply.
“Hold on a bit!”
He lounged forward to meet his partner, who was scrambling up towards him. During the interval of his waiting, he glanced up to where the girl was watching the two men, in a manner which he meant to be reassuring.
“She’ll tell him right enough,” he reflected. “Guess she’ll try and smooth it down. Just as lief she would! Hullo, mate, what’s up?” he added aloud.
The Englishman’s face was all aglow. He had something tightly clenched in his left hand, and after a quick glance around, he held it out towards his partner, and slowly unclasped his fingers. Even Pete Morrison’s set features relaxed for once. A gleam of enthusiasm shone in his hard face. Then he glanced suspiciously over towards Mr. Hamilton’s abode.
“Keep it snug!” he said coolly. “I ain’t seen Jim go down this morning, and I’d just as lief he didn’t know of this, yet. Any more?”
“Heaps! More in my pockets. It’s the biggest find yet!”
Pete Morrison looked away for a moment, and his coat-sleeve brushed across his eyes. He had turned towards the Blue Hills, but he saw only a woman’s worn, pale face, thin and harassed, yet with a soft, pleasant light in the keen gray eyes. It was gone almost directly.
“I was thinking—of my old woman!” he remarked apologetically. “It seems kinder hard!”
The Englishman made a gesture as though to stretch out his hand. Pete stopped him.
“Thank
